


Feeling Lucky

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: But from a member of the community not said in hate, Derogatory Language, M/M, POV Outsider, POV Second Person, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:00:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26108356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: You spent years hanging around the bars and dark alleyway corners, then one day, there was him. A face you knew by name: Sgt. Peter Jakes.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Original Male Character(s), Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse, Peter Jakes/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 23





	Feeling Lucky

You spent years hanging around the bars and dark alleyway corners, alternately thanking and cursing your average height and a shade less-than-attractive face. It’s not enough to draw anyone towards you; no, that first contact falls to you - to make the introduction, to risk the look up and down and curl of a sneer from some pretty boy that finds you lacking. But it’s safer, too. Being a copper and a queer is a fatal combination, and it’s better to be forgettable.

Then one day, there was him. A face you knew by name: Sgt. Peter Jakes.

You weren’t going to approach, but he saw you and he did. You’ve got as much to lose as each other, he threatened, even though as a DS he technically outranks you. The fist in your shirt, the scowling glare, that suddenly flipped and wasn’t so much about fear, or anger, but something else that burned just as hot.

Thing is, he could do better. He might not quite be a pretty boy, but he’s leagues above you with his sharp looks and suits and long legs, and you know it. You’re lucky he thinks a sure bet and safety’s worth more than youth and beauty.

\--

You don’t like Morse. Jakes calls him an upstart with a twisted expression, and you know there’s no love lost there either. Seems no one likes Morse, except Thursday and maybe Strange - but Strange is nice to everyone.

No, no one likes Morse.

You’d wondered about him, when he first turned up. First the face - you’re not blind, and he’s the type who could sit at the bar and have men flock to him - but then the opera, and the poetry, and the way he lives on the edges. Except he fell all over himself for that singer, crying in the station like a snot-nosed kid, so you dismissed it and started getting worried instead - about the way he adds things up in his head.

You watch him, and he even notices  _ you _ .

You tell Jakes to be wary of him, but Jakes just scoffs like know-it-all Morse is anything to be worried about.

\--

You might not like Morse, but - he’s pretty, alright? And he’s  _ there _ , right in front of you day after day, and he  _ works _ with Jakes so you see them together all the time, sniping at each other and - 

Look. What neither of them know won’t hurt them, and it’s not like you can meet up with Jakes every night. Sometimes it’s just nice to think about, okay?

\--

You don’t go to the bars anymore. What’s the point, when you’ve got Jakes? Besides, you feel a bit old for it - the meat market, the games the new boys play thinking they’re original. You’d rather have a couple of pints at a respectable boozer, then trail off the path on the way home and find yourself outside a door you know will let you in.

It’s not a heart thing. It could be, for you, but you’re not sure Jakes has that in him and you’re not gonna fall for someone who won’t ever fall back. You tried to call him Pete once and he froze, pushed away, and then came back harder, darker, like he could rip the memory from you, overwrite it if he could just find the right combination of hands and teeth. 

So, no. No first names, no soft words, nothing but heat and release. 

You still count yourself lucky. 

\--

It’s a shock when Morse gets himself arrested. You’ve got no idea what went on up at Blenheim Vale - no one’s talking and apparently even the files are under lock and key - but Morse is suddenly gone, and Jakes is too. Well. Mentally. 

You try to get him out for beers, and that works once or twice when all the sergeants go, but he doesn’t look you in the eye the whole night. Just downs his pints too quickly and sits with eyes darting from colleague to colleague like a cornered dog. 

He doesn’t follow you home.

\--

Morse is released, which is no surprise. You don’t like the man, but even you could see he would never have shot Thursday. Bright, maybe. Jakes, even, on a bad day. But not Thursday, the man he follows around like some sad mixture of lost puppy and surrogate son.

He disappears though, which is the best of both worlds in your opinion. With him gone, there’s no need to worry what he might see, what he might put together - although that’s not so much of a concern these days, filled as they are with chippie dinners for one and something on the telly box. 

But Jakes has lost the haunted look, too. Then he turns up on your doorstep late one night. It’s been a long time, you’re several beers down, and just the faint scent of his cologne is enough to get your blood up.

You let him in. 

\--

Jakes doesn’t come out so much these days, but tonight he’d been there at the Lamb, on the other side of the group of sergeants. It’s been over a week since you saw him alone though, tough cases running late, and you can’t help but watch him over the lip of your pint glass. Distracted.

At least he’s watching you too. He knocks back his last third of a pint in almost one swallow, and makes his rounds of goodbyes, see you tomorrows. He slaps you on the back, barely glancing your way, but you know what that was - an invitation. You give him several minutes head start before downing your last dregs of beer and following him out. 

You catch sight of a lanky figure in the distance - far enough that you wouldn’t be sure, except you know that gait because you know those legs far better than you should. The pavement is wet, the reflected street lights shining, and you trail in his footsteps as puddle water splashes and seeps up your trousers.

He stops, and stares down an alley. Then picks his way into it, past the puddles and strewn newspapers, disappearing from view. That’s not the way to his flat. It’s also not how he would intervene in a crime. Too slow, too careful, for that.

You keep your pace steady, only slowing as you reach the alleyway entrance. It’s vaguely familiar from years past, years pre-Jakes, as somewhere someone could find a good time if they’re not too picky and ready to run at any point. It’s not subtle, but you press against damp brick and peep round the corner. 

He’s there. 

And he’s not alone.

Your first thought is he’s bored with you, but no - there’s too much space between the bodies, and Jakes has maybe two inches on the other man, but he uses them to his advantage, fist curled in a collar like he’s shaking a naughty cat. When he drops him, he shifts, and your gaze catches on his expression, lit and shadowed by the nearest street light. It’s fear, and anger, and exasperation, and underneath it all a current of something that might be  _ fondness. _ Jakes knows this man. You tear your gaze across and something feels inevitable about the curls and cheekbones that would make any bar patron sit up and take note.

He notices you. Like always. You feel like laughing at the way his eyes widen and he scrambles, pushing Jakes back, even though - that was nothing. A shade too close, perhaps, a suggestive place - but nothing anyone would think anything of except for the way he’d overreacted and that clinches it.

Morse is a queer.

And he knows you know. You turn away. Let Jakes handle that.

\--

Okay, so now you  _ know, _ is it better or worse to think of all the ways they might touch and grab at each other? How old rivalry might spill out into bite marks, or that weird, new half-friendship into fingerprint bruises…

The pictures burn hotter than they ever did, but something also coils, slick and squirming, deep in your gut.

\--

You ask Jakes about it, the alleyway, one night when the sweat is still cooling on both your bodies. He’s halfway down a cigarette, and soon he’ll stand and find his trousers and leave, so if you don’t ask now you never will.

Nothing, is what Jakes says. It was nothing. Just Morse being stupid for once.

You push, but he’s as tight-lipped on this as he is everything else, and finally you admit your thought. That Morse is as bent as you are, and more - you know that he saw you. Jakes grows colder, quieter, so you repeat his words back to him. We’ve all got as much to lose as each other.

\--

You would have thought that was that, but Jakes keeps turning up on your doorstep and you keep letting him in. Morse still watches you, but now you’re watching him back, and it’s like he doesn’t know how to handle that. He bristles more than ever, and you roll your eyes and keep your distance because you’re not here for mutual destruction but you’re not here for putting up with his hoity toity ways either.

Then one day, Jakes invites you to the pub.

It’s said casually, off-hand, but when you arrive there’s no crowd of coppers. No jokes and rowdiness, just a Detective Sergeant and a Detective Constable, sitting awkwardly in silence at one of the glass-ringed tables. You divert via the bar and buy a round, despite the half full pints in front of each of them. 

“Thanks,” Morse mutters, as he takes one of the beers.

It’s practically chatty, compared to Jakes. You can’t help but wonder why he’s engineered this, because it’s pretty clear he doesn’t want to be here. Maybe it’s a power play? You wonder if Jakes told Morse about the two of you.

Eventually Morse leaves, and Jakes lets you follow him home.

\--

You can’t help watching Morse. 

It’s ingrained, wariness morphed into a habit, and now when he catches you looking he stares steadily until you turn away. You wonder if he’s headed back to that alleyway, or if Jakes told him about one of the bars - if you’ll come in one morning to news all round the station that the wonder detective’s a fairy; someone shopped him on it, or bad luck at a raid.

You wonder how he got along in prison the first time. But then, criminals are more respectful of murderers than they are fairies. A cop killer might’ve found himself an easy ride, even one that looks like Morse.

\--

It’s been a long week. Too many pig-headed senior officers who think they’re the business and too many sheets of typewriter paper. You need a drink, and you wouldn’t say no to a fight, but really,  _ really _ what you want is to lose yourself in a different kind of one on one.

You haven’t seen Jakes in days, so you go by his place, but it’s shut up and dark. You trudge back towards town, thinking about swinging into the Lamb for a consolation whiskey, but then - there’s Morse.

You don’t think as you cross the street and fall into step with him. He looks rough in the orange glow of the street lights - bags under his eyes, face drawn and tired. You don’t know if he’s too many beers down or just overworked, like you, but it doesn’t matter. You think about touching him; if he’d ever go for that, if he’s as bony as his shirts make him look, and let your hands brush together.

He tilts his head and turns off, and you’re not sure if that was a yes or a no, but he doesn’t blink when you turn with him. This is a new experience, walking home with someone, but Morse seems the type to throw caution to the wind.

You wonder if your late night imaginings ever came true. You think probably not, because once the door slams shut he’s wild, a hundred miles from Jakes’ controlled desire, just passion and desperation and if you had to guess you’d say it’d been years. You let him break against you, pulling it in, because there’s always something exhilarating about a storm.

You know no one would look at you and Jakes and choose you. But it’s not about choice, is it? It’s about what’s on offer, and Jakes, it seems, isn’t offering Morse anything. But you are, because the thing with Jakes is just convenience, he’s made that clear enough - and turns out Morse is convenient as well. Turns out he’s alright, when he occupies himself with pushy kisses instead of words, and there’s a bleeding heart under there, you know that, but you also know you’re not the type people fall in love with. So it’s fine to take, because you’re not selfish about it, and then you leave. And that’s fine as well.

\--

You’re at your desk when you hear the two of them have been blown up. 

Still alive, you assume, from the PC’s shocked but jocular tone.

You have reports to finish and the ink bleeds from your pen and stains your hands and the tremors turn your signature to nonsense, but they’re still filed and stamped for your Inspector before clocking off time.

\--

Jakes gets a medal. The whole story made its way down the grapevine to you, but Jakes has been busy, and you’re not surprised there’s been no knock at your door. You’d still like to hear it first hand. A few of you head down the Lamb for a celebratory pint, and Jakes shows the medal off to everyone, although his fingers twitch any time someone goes to take it out the box. 

Morse is there too, tucked in a corner like the antisocial bugger he is, and your eyes drift from him to the medal to Jakes, beaming, and back again.

You leave early.

\--

It’s been long enough that frustration tickles under your skin like an annoying itch you can’t get rid of. You glance in the alleyways and walk past the bars, and come out at Jakes’ flat. It’s dark again, and disappointment roils in your chest. 

You remember the way to Morse’s dingy flat though, and can’t imagine he’d have objections to a repeat performance. You walk quickly, cursing the lighter evenings, and soon slip down the basement steps to his door.

Except the curtains are open. It’s barely seven, after all, but right there in the living room are two figures you could draw blindfolded, locked together. A lick of flame curls through your gut at the old fantasy, playing out now in full colour.

You raise a hand to knock - we’ve all got as much to lose, we’re all in this together - when Morse says something and you can read it on his lips, and Jakes  _ smiles _ and kisses him. 

_ Peter. _

The fire turns to lead. Cold, hard, dead. You’d wondered about it so many times, but now that it’s here you’re pretty sure you’re shit out of luck. Because Morse isn’t being pushy, and Jakes looks loose and easy, and you realise, suddenly, this has none of the hesitance of a first time, or even a second, or third. Maybe  _ you _ were convenient, but  _ they’re  _ not, not to each other.

They’re something more.

You turn, and creep back up the basement stairs to street level. With the way the sun falls they’re highlighted, and you spin and kick at an old beer bottle, let it rattle and break against the brick wall. Morse is careless and it must be catching, because Jakes is normally too buttoned up, but anyone could walk along here and see exactly where the two of them like to kiss, and stroke, and touch.

You hope the crash makes them more careful. 

You head for home. You were lucky, for a long time, with Jakes. But that’s the thing about luck. It always changes. 

**Author's Note:**

> Bit of a weird one? :P


End file.
